


Every Dog Has His Day

by threewalls



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2014-2015 NHL Season, Animal Play, Asexual character(s), Giant Cock Angst, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-14 04:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5730094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geno has problems. Some of them are bigger than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Dog Has His Day

Geno knows he should try again, clean slate, take the new night as a new opportunity and all that shit. What he is doing instead is taking shots, watching women pass their table with narrowed eyes instead of turning on the charm. He doesn't want to fuck up again.

Oksana taught him that women are not all the same, and that much Geno knows is true. That woman from three nights ago is not Oksana, not familiar and comfortable, not someone Geno already knows how to please. (No one at this club in Toronto is Oksana, but that hurts less than it did two summers ago when she told him that she couldn't, wouldn't, try again with him.)

Geno's problems with women are usually sex, but they weren't with Oksana. She wasn't Geno's first, but she was the first to take his jaw in her hands, the first to teach him that sex was about more than what to do with his big dick. She just never taught him how to explain that to other women.

If this were Moscow, Geno would have more ideas. There he knows which clubs, how to act, what to say to keep it casual enough that no one is surprised when fucking's not quite on the table. That had worked in the summer.

But this isn't Moscow in the summer. It's Toronto in October, and it's not just words that Geno has to remember to translate. He's Geno here, not Zhenya. He's out with his team after their first away win for the regular season in fucking Canada, where of course NHL players get a VIP table and everyone around them knows their names.

Geno scowls over his shot glasses at the rookies, for being young and stupid enough to get away with just making eyes at girls. Though they all probably have small enough dicks that they don't even understand what Geno's problems are like.

It's Canada, so Sid went back to their hotel after dinner. The thought of his captain fielding media questions about Geno caught with a woman in a club booth is enough to keep any thoughts like that inside Geno's sullen head. Here the media care about sticking their nose into his hockey fuck-ups more than they do about his sex life, but that doesn't mean he wants to give them ammunition. He's angry and he's drunk but he's not stupid.

"I don't need this," Geno remembers that woman three nights ago saying, the moment she stopped arguing, stopped talking and got off the bed already reaching for her clothes. He wishes it was that easy for him to let it go.

Geno drinks and he scowls and he lets himself be poured into a cab back to their hotel. He's too drunk to get it up in his fist when he gets there, and too hungover to want it in the morning. He's still angry, and Geno knows it's a problem he still needs to fix, but doesn't know how.

This also makes him angry.

\---

Geno's on a point streak, but that doesn't mean the team is only winning. He also hasn't managed to stay outside the box yet this season. After practice, the guys avoid him at his stall like they'd avoided him whenever possible between drills on the ice.

This early in the season, no way no one is going out, but Geno hasn't heard anyone suggest that for tonight. No one is talking to Geno. He hasn't caught anyone out, but he's almost certain people are switching topics when he comes close enough to hear. Trying to eavesdrop in English over the angry thundering of his pulse just makes his head hurt.

Glaring around the room, he catches Flower's eye, but he just stares back flatly until Geno is the one who turns away. Goalies. Geno looks at the floor by his stall as he finishes stripping his gear.

He can't rely on his Pittsburgh friends to invite him out, either. Not when so many of them are married, when group invitations involve girlfriends or wives. Max told him so the other night, that Geno needed to stop being "so fucking moody around women". No one on the team has made that accusation in Geno's hearing yet, but that doesn't mean they're not thinking it. And maybe they are talking about it, in all those conversations they're not letting Geno hear.

Maybe they're finally talking about where to go out tonight, he thinks, now that the shower's drowning out everything for Geno except the flood of bitterness inside his own head.

"Hey, G, there you are! You got plans for later?"

Geno snorts, bitter. "No. No plans."

Sid stares at Geno for a long moment. He's caught Geno just outside the showers, so there's not too many people around to overhear.

"Want to get lunch? Not sure where. I haven't rung around yet."

Geno's stomach drops.

Sid treats all the new guys to meals one on one to be sure they're getting any help they need settling in. Because of the language issue, Geno was still having semi-regular "captain dates" well into his third season with the Pens. He still has them now, but not more often, he thinks, than Sid schedules with other long-term Penguins, like Flower or Tanger. They caught up in the pre-season; Geno isn't due another for a couple of months.

Sid wants to talk to Geno and he doesn't already have a reservation somewhere for lunch today. Which means he hasn't gently persuaded one of the new guys to give up his spot, but cancelled on someone with their own house and family. Someone with kids.

"We get take-out?"

"Uh, I don't--"

And before Sid can confess that the kitchen in that house he has allegedly, finally, moved into this season doesn't actually have plates or forks or running water yet, Geno continues: "And maybe go to my house?"

"That'd be a lifesaver," Sid says, his smile bright teeth, "if that works for you?"

"I pick what we eat, it works."

"Yeah, ok, I could eat sushi," Sid answers. He's grinning, plan clearly accomplished. "I'll be behind you getting out. Can you pick it up and I'll meet you at yours?"

"I get receipt for you," Geno says, and Sid laughs all the way into the showers, just like Geno intended.

Well, fuck.

\---

Out of all of Geno's petty attempts at stalling, the only one that nearly works is arguing about what to watch on TV. Sid must realise that's where it's going, because he drops his hands into his lap and drops his voice to something suspiciously mild as he says that he hopes Geno finds something he wants to watch soon. Because their sushi is getting warm.

They eat without talking, and far too soon, lunch is gone. While Geno was watching the reintroduction of wolves to Yellowstone National Park, Sid nabbed the remote. He mutes the TV and clears his throat.

"We're all adjusting to the major changes in the organisation as well as on the team."

This isn't the talk that Geno was bracing himself for. This is round two of the talk they had in the summer, Sid waiting until Geno had shouted himself hoarse to say: "Ok, but when they ask, this is how you should talk about it."

"Adjusting to new line mates takes practice. You couldn't skate with the team during training camp, but I have confidence that you'll find the chemistry. We're playing good hockey with the new systems. You're playing good hockey, Geno."

Nealsy shipped away to fucking Nashville is a banked coal in Geno's heart. It makes his current obsession feel twice as petty. That instead Geno's sulking about his inability to reliably pick up women who don't actually want to fuck.

At least Sid thinks his problem must be about hockey.

Geno had been secretly glad that Seryozha's ankle kept him in Dallas for yesterday's game. That he didn't have the opportunity to relive those times in his rookie year when Seryozha caught him illegally drunk and sulking about the size of his dick. Seryozha knows this _big_ problem of Zhenya's too well.

Zhenya from eight years ago would have found it funny to say "giant cock" in front of the Sidney Crosby, for how predictably Sid would giggle and then ask quite seriously what Zhenya had been taught that the phrase meant.

Geno now only feels so tired. He should have fixed this before Sid decided he had to step in. He thumps back into the sofa, his head tipping back.

"I'm not rookie. Lazy's not first teammate I lose."

"Losing Army first didn't make losing Staalsy easier for me," Sid says. "We all know that trades happen. It's the game. But that doesn't mean it doesn't take time to stop expecting to see certain people with you on the ice."

Sid is still sitting rigidly upright, staring not quite at Geno's face, as he waits for Geno to find the words he wants.

He wants to tell Sid that he does remember his talking points. That he likes a coach who wants them to have fun on the ice. That he's happy to play wing, play center -- play goalie, if they ask, switch with Flower and let him finally score a fucking goal -- any position if it helps the team. But if Geno admits that hockey is not this problem, Sid will then ask what is.

"I'm maybe little bit miss Lazy," he allows. "But I also miss, you know, Russian friends. I miss have company around."

"I know Max moved out to get a place with his wife, but I thought you'd invite some other friends to stay here."

Geno had meant to blame all his foul moods on feeling homesick, his usual fall adjustment, but he leaps on the misunderstanding. Sid is the best.

"So far, no." Geno shrugs. "Maybe some come later. It's big house, you know, lots of room. I don't need. It's problem."

"These houses can be pretty big when you're on your own," Sid says.

And, normally, Geno would chirp Sid for sounding so authoritative. What does he know about living in a house on his own? But Geno didn't buy a house with too much space planning just to fill it with friends, and that is too close to his actual problem.

"It's different at my house back home," Sid continues. "I pick up Sam from my parents when I'm up there, so there's always someone waiting for me when I get back. Of course, when the season really gets going, I won't be there enough to miss it, but right now, yup, I sure miss hearing that scratching when I get to the door."

Geno got a puppy just before he fled Finland for the NHL. The next time Geno saw him, Jeffrey was large enough to knock him over.

Like most of the team, Sid's seen pictures. As captain, though, he's heard more than most about the bullshit bureaucracy and paperwork that ate up so much of Geno's time and temper over the years but never actually brought Jeffrey to Pittsburgh. Sid knows that Geno's dog has always lived with Geno's parents.

"I'm of course miss Jeffrey," Geno says, and Sid nods at that.

Geno has an idea. "Dogs best."

"Yup--" Geno flops sideways into Sid's lap. "Geno, what--?"

Looking up at Sid from his lap is a strange angle. Geno can see up Sid's nostrils and not much of his expression. He's holding both hands up, like Geno's pointing a gun at him instead of holding his own hands up in front of his chest bent over like paws.

" _Гав-гав_ ," Geno barks. "Like dog, you know?"

"Uh, you mean like: woof-woof?"

Geno sighs. "Why Russian dog speak English, Sid? _Гав-гав_."

"Ok," Sid says. "You're a dog, a Russian lap dog."

Sid probably thinks he's being obnoxious when he reaches down to pet Geno's head, but his blunt nails don't feel too bad on Geno's scalp.

"Dogs, Russian or otherwise, don't get to pick what's on TV," he adds. As if Sid watching the Devils at Washington from last night is a threat when Geno can't see the screen.

But Sid doesn't push Geno off his lap. He doesn't start back into anything like a stirring Captain speech for Geno's benefit. And every time Sid looks like he's even thinking about lifting his hand from Geno's hair, Geno wriggles his head and barks.

\---

Geno pushes up from his breakfast bar when he hears a car pull into his driveway. He made a plate for Sid when he served himself. Just in case. In the fridge, it's completely cold to the touch.

Sid stayed for the media and whatever else after the loss; Geno didn't.

He holds his front door open, stepping back to usher Sid past. Geno locks the door and leans up against it to wait for Sid to unlace his dress shoes and leave them in their place on the shoe rack.

They're standing in the kitchen. The microwave beeps and Sid turns to stare at it.

"I shouldn't stay," he says. "It's late. By now, I'm in bed usually."

"It's schedule?"

Sid nods, and Geno doesn't have an answer for that.

He's saved by microwave beeping again. Sid's head jerks, like he'd forgotten it was there.

"It's for you," Geno says. "You hungry?"

"Yeah, for sure. I haven't--" Sid breaks off staring at the microwave to look up at Geno's face. "You know what? I'm already packed for the road trip tomorrow. My suitcase is in my car. I mean, I could stay the night," he says. "It'd be like the road trip starting early."

They'd scheduled this time before Montreal, before they knew that Duper would be out for the season. Geno hadn't checked after that had all gone down, had waited instead for some sign from Sid. And then tonight, they'd gone to a shoot-out loss. Company down the hall isn't what they'd planned for, but it's more than Geno had thought he was getting until he heard Sid's car pull up outside.

He slaps Sid on the back and demands his car keys. When he gets back, Sid is settled at Geno's breakfast bar. He's half-demolished the mound on the plate.

"This chicken is good," Sid says. "Thanks."

"It's special for Sid. Only little bit spice."

Geno pours himself the last cup of peppermint tea from the pot.

He leaves Sid with his suitcase in one of the guest rooms and starts his own nightly routine. But when Geno comes out of his bathroom in boxer shorts, there's Sid standing in his bedroom doorway in a Pens T-shirt and sweatpants. Sid's almost monochrome with the darkness of the hallway behind him.

"You ok, Sid?"

"I read for a while in bed," Sid says, holding up a book. "No screens an hour before sleep, you know? We could do that together instead of watching TV like we usually do."

"Like road trip?" Geno thinks he didn't understand Sid before, and now he wants to be very sure. "You want to sleep here?"

"I'll be better company here than down the hall."

Sid's smiling, but Geno's too tired to ask. He yanks the covers down and gets into his side of the bed.

Geno is rubbing his eyes in between turning pages. Sid's book must be better than Geno's, or maybe non-fiction is a lighter read than literature. He drops his book on his night table and turns his lamp off.

"You ok with the light?" Sid asks. "I need to finish this chapter."

Geno rolls onto his side to head-butt Sid's thigh. Pretending to be a dog with Sid is still funny after all these weeks. Probably because it's a joke saved up only for these times alone. Sid doesn't look up from his book to reach down to stroke through Geno's hair.

Geno wakes for the first time when Sid turns his lamp off. He growls when Sid shoves at his shoulder, but allows himself to be pushed back to the other side of the bed. He wakes next when the lights are on again. He tells Sid to take the first shower and Sid laughs above him, unbearably loud.

"I took first shower already. C'mon, Geno. Up!"

"Worst roommate," Geno grumbles. "Worst."

Sid is, of course, ready before Geno is. "I'm going to head out now."

"I'm not pack yet," Geno says, like his open and half-empty case says anything else.

"I need to head home first anyway. Change into a fresh suit."

Sid's home is ten minutes' drive away. He could go to his house, change and be back before Geno finishes packing. He could have gone there after Geno fed him last night. None of that explains Sid standing in Geno's bedroom doorway with his hands shoved half into his pockets.

Geno stares back at Sid.

"Uh, you didn't give me my keys back last night," Sid says. "You know where they ended up?"

Geno fishes them out the pants he was wearing last night, and makes Sid follow him downstairs. He keeps spare house keys in a bowl in the hall.

"For next time," he says, handing both sets over.

"Uh, thanks. Good idea. You don't have a lot of competition for my late nights," Sid says. "If it works for you, we could plan to do this again the night we play Jersey."

Geno shrugs. Unlike some people, he doesn't have his schedule memorised.

"I'll email you a few times I can do in the next two, three weeks and you let me know which ones work for you?"

"Ok." Geno nods.

"I'll see you later." Sid looks up deliberately to meet his eyes, smiling too much, before adding: "But not too late?"

Geno shoves him off towards his shoes.

\---

Ksenia's blini are delicious, but Natalie and Victoria shrieking and running into Zhenya's hugs is what is really worth skipping the team's direct flight to Pittsburgh. He sees the girls every summer, and tries to call during the season, but that's not the same. Zhenya's so lucky that their schedules matched up so close to New Year's. He begs Ksenia more than the girls for just one more round of checkers when their mother herds them out.

"Have you started seeing anyone?" Seryozha asks, knowingly. "It's a good first step before children."

Zhenya is not seeing anyone. He hasn't picked up since that disaster early in the season, and he wants to talk to Seryozha about his "big" problem exactly as much as he wants to talk about how close to Zhenya's age his friend was when Natalie was born. Zhenya loves seeing his friend's children, but they're also a reminder that Zhenya doesn't have any of his own.

Zhenya mumbles something about focusing his energy on the team this year, leading on and off the ice in this period of transition.

Seryozha just laughs. "You sound like Crosby saying nothing to a microphone. All respect to Sid, but him, I'd believe he might give up sex for hockey, but not you."

"When am I going to meet someone special before the summer? It's better to keep the rookies out of trouble when we go out."

"Your team doesn't need any more trouble," Seryozha agrees. "Mumps, really? Is this the 1950s?"

They both knock their knuckles on Seryozha's wooden dining table.

\---

Geno texts Sid an photo of the cab queue at Pittsburgh airport.

He finds Sid sitting in his den watching yesterday's game against Montreal on mute. Geno doesn't notice that Sid is wearing a suit until he slumps down after his post-transit shower.

"It's special occasion?"

Geno is in sweats. He's passed on Sid taking him anywhere that involves a dress code so far this year.

"I'm heading out to meet Perron for dinner in--" Sid glances at Geno, his watch and then back at the screen. "An hour."

Sid had only said "maybe" about today, when they'd compared schedules for this fortnight. He'd said "let me know if your flights get delayed", but they weren't, and he's here.

The game is into the third period on the TV, which means Geno's missed watching his goal.

He points in the general direction of Sid's crotch. Everyday bruising hasn't stopped them before, and neither of them wanted to meet up while Sid was recuperating from the mumps. "It's ok?"

"I played through it to a game-winning goal off a great pass," Sid says, eyes still on the screen, and Geno knows that crooked smile. "Would I have rather not taken the skate? For sure, but I'm not being scratched until we have to."

The game switches to commercials, and this time, when Sid glances across at Geno, his attention lingers.

"C'mere," he says.

Geno draped a towel around his neck after his shower, to catch drips. Sid's already pulling it off before Geno has bent his head. He throws it up over Geno's head, rubbing the towel through his hair. Rubbing Geno's damp hair between his fingers.

"That's probably the best we can do for now," Sid murmurs.

His hand slides to cup the back of Geno's head, gentling him down to rest on the broad plane of Sid's thigh. The towel is soft under Geno's cheek. Sid's fingers smell of Geno's shampoo.

"Hour?"

"Yup. I'll wake you if you fall asleep."

Geno doesn't know what he'll heat up for dinner, but he can put off deciding for an hour. Sid has never once not had a good reason for why he needs to reschedule, but between the injuries and illnesses, call-ups and trades, Geno hasn't had a captain-date in a month.

If Sid is seeing anyone, Geno doesn't know how he finds the time.

\---

 **was that u guys back from the bar?** Sid texts.

Geno sends back a selfie, pulling a silly pose for Sid in the mirror of his hotel bathroom. He's already undressed for bed.

The team had split after dinner. Some of the guys looking for a drink in the hotel bar and some looking to call their wives before the time difference caught up with them back east.

Sid had walked up with Tanger, pretending like they weren't sneaking off to watch tape for Calgary. The team got the win tonight, they're back on top of the division, but they're also 4-4-2. That was Sid for you.

**haha. want some company?**

Geno looks around his hotel room. It's not more of a mess than his bedroom usually is, he decides. He texts Sid back: **y )))** and opens his door.

Three minutes later, Geno's door is safely shut over its threshold and the chain pulled across. Sid's inspecting the coverage of blackout curtains on the windows.

"No book?" Geno asks.

"How's the knee?" Sid asks in return.

"Feels good."

Geno wouldn't have bullied so many shots out of his teammates tonight (if he hadn't scored the game-winning goal on his first game back after five out) if he were still taking as many painkillers. He's cleared for contact. Playing Sid's puppy-dog is never as energetic as that.

"Can you lie on your side?" Sid asks, and then, when Geno sits on bed, "No, under the covers."

"I'm fall asleep," Geno warns.

"That's ok," Sid says, walking around the room to get the lights. "I set an alarm."

Geno can't see anything in the sudden dark, but he keeps his eyes open to push back sleep.

Sid's not quiet moving around the bed. Geno feels the pull of the covers lifting and Sid's hand on his back, finding his neck, his hair, but not with Sid's usual easy gliding strokes.

Geno's toes hit the tucked-in end of the sheets even with his knees slightly bent. The bed is shorter than his California King, but that means it will also be wider. Usually, more of them ends up touching.

The mattress springs creak and creak with Sid's restless weight.

Geno catches Sid's hand against his neck and holds it there.

"I'm not finding the angle I want," Sid complains.

"You want to practise dog thing in Pitt, ok when you want, Sid. Now it's time to sleep."

Sid doesn't sigh, but in the silence of Sid finally lying still, Geno can hear his measured slow inhale.

"G, do you ever just hug Jeffrey, just hold on?"

Is _that_ all Sid wants?

Geno tugs on Sid's hand, pulling Sid's arm over his shoulder, and that's all the encouragement Sid needs. His chest is a warm wall against Geno's back, the soft press of his T-shirt in time with the breath Geno can now feel on the back of his neck. Sid's hand settles spread low on his ribs.

" _Гав-гав_ ," Geno barks.

Sid giggles, his arm pulling tighter around Geno's waist. "How do you say "good dog" in Russian?"

Geno tells him.

Sid's pronunciation is more effort than accuracy, but Geno's is slurred with alcohol and sleep. Geno repeats it for Sid, because every time Geno says it, Sid says it again into Geno's hair.

\---

Horny is banging on his hotel room door, shouting about missing breakfast.

Geno shovels food onto his plate from the buffet and shovels food into his mouth at the table. He shovels anything in his room that looks like his into his suitcase. Geno is the last one onto the bus, like usual.

Sid's sitting at the front with Flower. Like usual. He doesn't look up from his PSP as Mike prods Geno in the back to get him moving forward again and Geno shoulders down the aisle. It's good that his usual two seats are empty. Geno isn't in the right mood to fight for his spot.

At the airport, Geno checks through his messages. He RSVPs to Max, about his wife's birthday party. The invitation is for two weeks from now, and it's not a game night. The message after that is Nealsy thanking Geno for postponing his recovery to last night. He wishes the Penguins as many points as possible on their western swing trip.

Nashville played at Pittsburgh on Sunday, but Geno had watched from the management box. He and Sid had to be pulled apart from discussing their different angles on play at Sid's Super Bowl party after the game.

Geno realises now that that was the first time he's seen the inside of Sid's new house.

Sid had asked which team Geno thought would win, given that the Steelers weren't one of the choices. Geno had sat on Sid's sofa without curling up into Sid's lap. He can't remember even thinking about it.

Geno hadn't thought about meeting up with Sid in one of their hotel rooms for this "dog" thing they're doing this season, either. Not before Sid's text. Maybe if he had, Geno would have realised before waking up alone that, of course, meeting in a hotel room on a team road trip would end that way. That Sid would set an alarm so that he wouldn't meet anyone leaving Geno's hotel room.

His phone vibrates.

Geno's conversation with Sid from last night is now above Nealsy's message.

 **Thanks for being accommodating about the short notice last time,** Sid's message says. **Let's get the next meeting organised ASAP.**

Geno swears when he checks his schedule. Sid gave him a choice of two times. One is nearly two weeks from now, the night of Katya's party, and the other is the Sunday after Vancouver, mid-afternoon. That's only three days from now, when he saw Sid last night, and if their plane back is delayed, a time that won't happen at all.

Geno texts Sid back. No point in drawing it out.

Sid's easy to spot among the guys, even with a baseball cap on. He's always easy to recognise as long as he's standing up. Right now, he's also looking right at Geno.

Geno holds up his phone, waves it without pulling the headphones from his ears.

Sid nods, once, or Geno thinks he does, and then turns back to whatever conversation the circle of French Canadians old and new are having.

Geno deletes the conversation with Sid and turns up the volume on his music until it drowns out the echoes of Sid's terrible Russian pronunciation in his memory.

\---

Someone touches Geno's shoulder, making him look up and back.

"Good game," Sid tells him.

They took Florida for 5-1, with three goals in the third period. Geno didn't get the hat trick, but he did get first star.

"Three point's more than two," Geno says, magnanimously not mentioning that neither of Sid's two points were goals.

"Well..." Sid says, the corner of his mouth twitching, "you're not wrong," and Geno lifts his own glass to himself.

The dip of Sid's head doesn't hide the width of his grin or the wild sparkle in his eyes. Back to back wins look good on him, even if they only got back from St. Louis at three this morning.

"I'm heading out," he says, and pats Geno's shoulder again. It's the only sign he's been drinking. "Rest up for Washington, G."

He's wearing a cap, inside, but Sid is still stopped on his way to the kitchens (and the back entrance) for pictures with fans. Geno sees it happen twice more before a woman in a green dress draws his eye. The win's left him feeling good like an itch under his skin.

Her heels are tall enough to bring the top of her head to Geno's shoulder, and she walks with confidence, like she knows she's beautiful. The table she sits down at has a man waiting for her, because a woman like that would only be single by choice. He takes her hand across their table, and she leans forward to listen to him speak. Geno can't hear her accent over the noise of other diners, but it won't be Russian.

He glances back towards the kitchens, and Sid's managed to disappear. The captain bowing out means the table's emptied, just Beau down the table staring down at his half-empty glass.

Geno elbows Beau's arm as he sits down next to him. "Don't worry."

"Uh, hi, Geno," he says. "Just thinking about who'll still be here next week."

Beau finished the game, but that can mean nothing. He also looks like he's just been woken up from a nap. February's been good to the team, but Geno knocks his knuckles against the table before speaking. "Your body feel ok?"

"Oh, I'm not injured or sick. For once." Beau laughs, and Geno winces. "I meant the trade deadline. I'm less worried about myself than some of the other guys, but who knows, right?"

Geno doesn't know, except for those of them with no trade clauses in their contracts. Trades decisions are the business of other people. Geno has never found that comforting to be told, so he doesn't say that now.

"Maybe find someone," he suggests instead, indicating the flow of women from the tables to what must be the washrooms. "Cheer up?"

Beau looks tired. He looks bored. He looks where Geno pointed, but he doesn't look like he wants to talk about women any more than Geno does.

Geno doesn't know why he said that, why talk of women was ready on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't feel angry right now, not about women, or hooking up, or fucking. He's not sure when his feelings changed, but Geno would like to stay that way.

Beau stands up, his chair scraping the floor. All Geno can see in that direction is Borts moving through towards them.

"Uh, actually, I was thinking of calling it a night," Beau says. "Back-to-backs are pretty brutal."

That's when Geno remembers that they live together. That explains his reaction, Beau thinking of his own bed at home.

Geno shrugs off their good-byes, returning to his beer and scanning the crowd for that distinctive shade of green dress.

Just his luck, but she's leaving as well. Geno watches her friend's hand on her back before they disappear into the crowd, probably not even knowing how lucky they have it, that easy way of coming out already knowing who they'll be taking home. He hasn't had that for more than a year, and he's not going to find that here tonight.

Geno downs the rest of his beer, and calls out after Beau and Borts as he strides to catch up with them. Maybe you can learn something from the rookies, he thinks. He'll make them split a cab back to Consol.

\---

Geno's skin is buzzing under his shirt, where the fabric of his slacks pulls against his thighs. He's hard before he's fully naked, game-day suit falling to pieces on his bedroom floor, and it feels good. He feels proud to have found a solution for all this stupidity.

He went home alone.

He imagines a woman straddling his mouth, and licks at air. His tongue catches on his own teeth, wet caress on his upper lip. He imagines his jaw dripping with spit and the way a woman tastes when she comes.

He imagines fingers tangled in his hair.

Alone, Geno has no one to argue with him about what he knows to be true. His cock is too big to fuck, too big to suck, but it's just right for Geno's own hand. He imagines a woman coming against his tongue, begging for his mouth, a loop of praise and pleas.

Geno comes, only his own voice shouting. It's good.

He rolls his shoulders, and it's not. It's not good at all. He sits up, the bad feeling rushing up his throat. Geno didn't buy a huge bed to put in his huge house just to sleep in it alone.

How hard was it to fuck women who want you to? How hard was it to let them find out for themselves how much they wouldn't like it? Geno was good with his mouth and his hands, but if he hinted that his dick was too big, they always thought he wanted flattery.

It was so sexy, of course, to bring a woman home and bring her off twice with his fingers and his mouth and to be accused of thinking there was something wrong with her, that he didn't want to fuck her, when Geno didn't want to wait for her to scream or cry or bleed. She'd screamed at him, anyway, and she'd left.

Geno grabs tissues from his night table, scrubbing his hand clean. He throws them at the bin, watches them flutter uselessly down onto the floor. Thank fuck he went home alone tonight, when he can't even enjoy his own fucking right hand.

Fucking, not fucking, he can't win and Geno hates that. He hates that he hasn't fixed this problem yet. Six months, and he's just lucky that this "dog" thing with Sid has distracted him from fucking up worse.

Geno looks at his phone for only a moment before picking it up.

**Sid u sleep?**

\---

"If you weren't asleep," Sid says, "you could have met me at the front door."

"Why? You have key. You find bed ok."

The sleeve of Sid's sweatshirt is thick and soft in Geno's grasp. He'd caught Sid's arm before he could turn off Geno's bedside lamp.

Sid's final text in their exchange said that he'd be there in thirty minutes. It took Geno half that to make his bedroom presentable, and he slid back into bed thinking that his mother would be proud. Somewhere between then and now, he had fallen into a doze that made the noises of Sid's arrival seem like a dream.

He's too nap-muzzy to decipher Sid's face, but he knows why Sid's here. Geno's last text had said: **sad puppy (((((**. He digs his nails into the sleeve before Sid can pull away.

"Oh, that's how it is, eh?"

Geno growls in his throat as Sid tugs his arm, as Geno tugs back. The only way this could be better is if Geno had thought to grab Sid's sleeve with his mouth.

"G, I'm not getting into bed with all my clothes on."

Oksana, Geno could have pulled over into bed, but Sid weighs as much as Geno does. Neither of them are using their full weight, Sid's sleeve stretched taut between them.

"Geno, drop it!"

" _Гав-гав_ ," Geno barks, and before Sid can say something else, he sweetly reminds Sid that his puppy doesn't speak English.

Maybe Sid can guess what " _Английский_ " means, maybe not. He understands enough. Geno especially likes the way Sid's eyes narrow at the challenge, his lips pressed together tightly. He waits for Sid to retort he doesn't speak Russian, the way he used to, back when they only spoke different languages to each other.

What Sid says is " _дженя_!," sharp like a command. The word shocks Geno into letting Sid's sleeve slip free.

"Good--" Sid begins in English, and then switches back to tell Geno he's a good dog. His pronunciation for this is a little better. It still makes Geno shiver.

Friends call him Zhenya, but so do journalists. The pet name he taught Sid is far more affectionate than he would allow a journalist to use, but Geno likes dogs more than he likes the media. But like Sid's muddled consonants, the difference can't be a difference to Sid.

Sid struggles with his sweatshirt, his T-shirt bunching up under his arms when he pulls his sweatshirt off.

"You want help?"

Sid has to pause to find the word he wants, and looks so smug when he does: " _нет._ "

Sid doesn't pull the T-shirt down to cover his abs, but also lifts it over his head. He folds both as he walks around to the other side of the bed, leaving them in a neat pile with his belt curled up on top.

Across the bed, Sid's face is too much in shadow to read. Geno squints, but he's tired. The only light in the room is the lamp behind him. All he can see is that Sid's shoulders are too straight.

"I do not," Sid says, in the semi-dark, "need help with my pants."

"You sure?" Geno asks, relieved because Sid's weirdness was only his shit comedic timing, because he just handed Geno the chirp. He turns down the covers from Sid's side of the bed. "Big ass, Sid. Don't want you to fall over."

"Fuck you," Sid says, laughing. He wrestles his pants down over his boxer briefs, he sits on the edge of the bed to tug off the rest. He tells Geno to get the light.

But then, in the dark, when Geno rolls over, Sid's hands catch his shoulders, suspending him there. It feels like a long moment, long enough for Geno to hold some of his own weight, long enough for Geno to feel a touch of anger that melts the instant he feels Sid relax back into the bed and follows him down himself.

Sid's torso isn't a soft pillow, but a solid one. His hand on the back of Geno's neck is familiar even if this position isn't. Geno throws an arm out over Sid, getting comfortable. He rolls his shoulders when Sid's hand follows down his spine.

Sid calls him a good dog, and Geno doesn't correct his pronunciation. If only all three point nights ended like this.

\---

Geno wakes at too much noise, too much light. Across the room, Sid is getting dressed. Geno picks up his watch, checking how late he is, and--

"Fuck, Sid! Why you awake?" He throws his watch back down, and slides back under the covers.

"I've got a meeting," Sid says.

Of course. They have an afternoon practice after the tight back-to-back. Geno had had vague thoughts of lunch together, first, maybe watching TV, but Sid has a meeting and Geno would like to sleep more this morning.

He lifts his head when Sid climbs back into bed.

"I don't need to leave yet," he says. "I thought we could..." Sid lifts his hand.

Geno recognises the gesture. He shoves his pillow up against Sid's ass and uses it to put his head into Sid's lap. Sid's sitting up and Geno has pants fabric under his face, but it has all the important parts of last night. He has Sid's hand on his spine, stroking up to pet through Geno's hair.

"I didn't mean to wake you up," Sid says. "You looked like you were having a good sleep."

"Sleep best with you," Geno replies, and, all at once, he realises that it's true.

He rolls his head, and Sid's hand rolls with him. He brushes the hair back from Geno's forehead, traces the shell of Geno's ear. When Geno opens his eyes, he'll be looking straight up at Sid, but he wants to stay like this for a little while.

When he held his passport in Helsinki airport, he knew he would walk out of his life for a chance at the NHL. When he bought his Sewickley house, he knew he wanted Oksana to live in it with him. Geno has felt this sure only a few times in his life.

This is what he has been missing, longer than last night, longer than this season. He wouldn't give up sex for hockey, but he'd give it up for how he feels right now.

Sid's grin widens when he spots Geno watching him. His hair looks like it would feel soft and thick, and his eyes are golden-flecked brown. If Sid were an animal, he would be something more dangerous than a dog, Geno thinks.

He sits up slowly, missing Sid's hands already, as they drop back to Sid's lap. But this isn't a conversation Geno can have as a dog.

"Puppy thing, we start, you know, because I'm mad."

"Yes, you were," Sid says. He's sitting back, giving Geno space. "Back in October."

"But I'm not mad about empty house. I not want to say."

Sid nods for him to continue.

"It's, you know, I meet girl, we go to hotel-- I don't know why I think it work. But it's not good. We fight. Lots of emotion. I'm get mad, she leave, but I'm always mad."

Geno's still so sure, but he doesn't know how to translate that feeling into words. Sid's looking closely at his mouth, the way Geno does when he's not sure of the words being said.

"G, I'm really not equipped to help you with something like that."

"But you help!" Geno tells him, frustrated. "Six months, Sid! You help when you--" He reaches up.

Sid's face is media-blank, but the muscles of his jaw clench invisibly under Geno's touch.

"Always sleep best with you." Geno drops his hand, but Sid doesn't stop watching him in that way, tight-lipped.

Sid's phone alarm rings, startling them both. Sid stumbles up out of bed, halfway to the door before he silences the alarm.

"I have to go," he says. "Sorry, Geno. The alarm, that was as long as I can stay. We need to talk about this, but later. I am sorry."

"You have meeting," Geno says, because what else can he say.

He falls backwards, flat on his back. He hears Sid's heavy, rapid footfalls down the stairs, and beats the mattress with his fist.

\---

Sid finds Geno in the gym, coming up on his side just when Geno has winded himself on the bike.

"You got five minutes?" Sid asks, handing Geno a towel.

Geno scrubs at his face. It keeps him from staring at Sid's expression like it will hold some clue. 

Sid looks the way he always does, but he's always been good at keeping off ice issues from his on ice performance. Geno doesn't know how his own face looks so normal. He doesn't know how he hasn't thrown up yet today, the acid of his anger keeps washing up over the warmth he'd felt waking up with Sid's hand on the back of his neck.

"Five minutes? You don't want five minutes this morning."

"Look, about that--" Sid begins. "I owe you a full apology and an explanation."

Geno can only stare at him. Sid looks sincere, but this feels like an ambush. He's tired from his workout, and that always makes speaking another language worse. The gym at Southpointe Iceoplex is not the place for this conversation, not with their teammates working out around the room. 

"Ok, I'm make dinner," Geno says, and then corrects: "Buy dinner. We talk, figure it out, ok? No more problem."

"I wish I could, G, but you know what my schedule is like. Tonight's no good, and I need to keep the holes in my schedule open just in case. I don't know what will happen by the trade deadline, and we've got the West Coast road trip right after. I want to pencil you in, but I can't commit yet.

"But I know I can trust you to be professional about this until then."

Geno knows that trick, feels his back straighten, his shoulders falling back, when Sid says that. This is an ambush, but Geno can't find any more anger at Sid when he wants more time to find his own words, too.

He knows whatever he told Sid was a fucking mess, but it was first thing in the morning. Even though Geno can remember exactly how he'd felt, how sure, it's nothing he expected. That explains why it took him so long to find this solution, but he doesn't think he could explain it to Seryozha, in Russian, let alone find the right English to convince Sid.

"We talk later," he says, and it's not a question.

"Yup, we'll talk later," Sid says. "I'll let you know as soon as my schedule settles down after the deadline. I promise."

"I'm sorry, too," Geno offers. He thinks they both fucked up this morning, but Sid's apologies seem sincere. He can be generous.

"You did nothing wrong, Geno. I think you're brave to tell me, but, uh, we'll talk more about that later, eh? Good talk," Sid says, and walks off.

Brave? They definitely need to talk. Geno has no idea what Sid's thinking.

\---

Geno corners Sid at the hotel after the Anaheim game. They won, two points each and two points for the team. It's been more than a week and a half, and Geno's done waiting. He gives him the choice of the corridor or Sid's hotel room, because Sid's not the only one who can plan an ambush.

Sid's calm until he shuts the door. "We don't have time for this tonight."

"Just five minutes. We make appointment, then I go."

Geno has taken a seat on the bed furthest from the door. Sid's standing, as if he thinks looming over Geno is impressive.

"You and I should both be sleeping. We play LA tomorrow."

"Play-offs next month, Sid," Geno says. "We gonna talk before then?"

He watches Sid take several deep breaths through his nose, his lips pressed together, pinched. 

"Look," he begins. "We've been on the road since the trade deadline. We're winning. We're gelling as a team, but nobody's settled into Pittsburgh yet. We picked up three guys in a week, Geno. They have to be my priority."

"Benny's been here before."

"Yeah, and Beau's a mess," Sid says, flatly. "His road roommate and the guy he lives with traded the same day, so it's four guys I'm watching out for."

Geno can't argue with that. It doesn't matter what anyone is talking about this trip. Somehow, Beau always gets around to saying he's heard Borts was doing great on his new team. They're not playing St. Louis until the end of the month.

"How about I talk to Sunshine?"

"What, really?" Sid asks. "That could work out pretty great, if you're sure."

"I'm A, yes? Penguins not just Sidney Crosby. I talk to Sunshine, you talk to me."

The new guys might need help that only Sid will know about, but Beau needs reminding that he still has friends on the team. Geno can do that.

"I'll need to talk to Beau first," Sid says. "And I don't know your schedule. We're all busy this time in the season."

"Tell me when," Geno says. "I make time."

They win against LA. Geno doesn't score, breaking his point streak, but neither does Sid. The morning after, Sid emails that Geno has an appointment with Beau, to do something after practice, the day after they play Edmonton. It's Friday the Thirteenth, which makes Geno laugh.

Sid also lists their dinner reservations following the Boston game the night after. A fancy restaurant is no place to put his head in Sid's lap, but just because they have the reservation doesn't mean they need to use it.

\---

Geno's plan is a good one. He invites Beau over for dinner and then gets him very drunk. They both have to keep getting up to piss, because it's beer, but it works.

"It wasn't so bad on the road. I didn't have to think about it. I got home and I just-- his stuff was everywhere. Not even really his stuff, just, we bought so much shit together. I slept on the couch last night-- we bought the pillows on the bed together, you know?" 

Geno opens Beau another beer and passes it over.

"The day we got back from the road, I spent the whole day cleaning. We never-- I never clean. But now it'll be easier, when he comes to pick up all his stuff."

Geno doesn't know how much Beau is taking in of what he says, but he doesn't look like he will care if Geno repeats himself. It's hard when a friend gets traded, of course, or when they sign with another team. Nealsy's trade to Nashville was hard for Geno in the summer.

"Yeah, but you weren't fucking Nealer, were you?" Beau says with a hiccupping laugh. 

There's a long enough pause after that that Geno realises that, somehow, he meant that as a genuine question.

"No," Geno says. 

There's another long pause. 

"You and Borts--?" Geno asks.

"Oh, yeah, were we ever." Beau makes a face like he's surprised he said that aloud, frowning at the bottle in his hand. "Oh, jeez, I am so drunk."

Geno decides to make him sleep in one of his guest rooms. His plan will fail if Beau ends up on IR. Sid will use the excuse to spend time with whoever gets called up in his place.

"It's hard when someone you love is far away," Geno continues, because he knows as much about long distance love as he does about long distance friendship. "Pitt to St. Louis, it's not so bad. It's not Moscow to Pittsburgh."

"It's not LA to Thunder Bay, either," Beau says, and starts telling Geno a story about how he and Borts had met up in the middle during the summer, just to see a movie together.

"See, you know how to make plans." 

"We only play them twice a year," Beau complains.

"Maybe you wish Borts go to Philly," Geno says. "Then you play him more."

Beau makes a face of suitably drunk horror at this.

"Sid knows," Beau says, when Geno promises not to tell anyone. "About us. I know you need to report back on how I'm doing. And I know you're cool with it. I remember what you said before the Olympics, about being ok with a gay teammate."

"You remember that?"

"Of course I remember," Beau says. "You remember every time somebody says something like that. You want to know which of the guys in the room would have your back out there, but you can't exactly ask, right?"

"I'll be ok," he adds. "It just really sucks right now. We were convenient, I guess, and now we're not."

"You want to talk to Borts, talk to him," Geno tells Beau. "Maybe you don't want same, but don't you want to know?"

After he's left Beau in a guest bed with a litre bottle of water beside him, Geno lies in his own bed, uncomfortably restless despite the alcohol. He wanted Oksana, and she wanted him, until she didn't. He wants Sid, but he doesn't know what Sid wants. He wants to know. Geno's drunk enough that he can feel the phantom touch of Sid's hand in his hair.

\---

They don't make Sid's restaurant reservation after the Boston game. Geno can't even be angry, because Sid's scratched for the game due to illness. Of course he can't go out to dinner. Geno can be angry at himself, because he gets injured in the first period against Boston, and not lightly.

Sid's back against Detroit, though. They lose, and Geno wishes he was out there. He hates not being out there. He hates the thought of Sid walking out last, alone.

The Penguins lose against New Jersey. They lose against Dallas. They win against Arizona, but they're tanking this year for the next draft. Not being able to win against Arizona would be like not winning over Buffalo. 

Sid doesn't email to reschedule and Geno doesn't push him. The team comes first.

The team stay in Arizona overnight, and then fly back across the country and bus straight to Southpointe. Geno meets them there.

Being back on the ice feels good even if his ankle doesn't. Geno takes a few drills but spends the rest just skating with Mike. Horny only skates, no drills, no contact. If this wasn't the only ice time for the team all day, they wouldn't even be skating with the team tonight.

When Geno's resting by himself along the boards, Beau skates up beside him.

After a few awkward pleasantries, he says: "So, uh, the Blues get in tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, you talk with Borts?"

Beau quickly scans the ice around them before replying. "We talked already. He reminded me that's what phones are for, right? But, yeah, we made plans to hang out tomorrow. So, thanks," he says. "You know, for before."

Beau is smiling as he skates off.

Geno couldn't have counted to five before Sid skates up in his place.

Geno is tired. His ankle hurts and he misses playing. Beau has his shit together better than Geno does, and Beau is a child. 

He leans down, so that Sid doesn't have to strain his neck while they talk. "Sunshine and Borts, they hang out tomorrow. Everything ok."

He expects Sid to leave it at that, but he just nods, leaning on his stick. "What about you? Got any plans tomorrow?"

Geno makes a face, shrugging. "See trainer in morning. Rest."

"What about lunch?" Sid asks.

"Lunch?" Geno echoes. 

"I owe you a raincheck," Sid tells him, matter of fact. "I can meet you for lunch tomorrow, if you don't already have plans."

"No plans, but..." Geno taps his stick on the ice between his skates. "My ankle's still fucked."

"That's ok," Sid says. "I deliver."

He laughs at his own joke, and then Geno does, too, feeling a little bit of his certainty trickle back.

When he's stepping through the gate by the bench, Flower calls. "Hey, fuckface, when you coming back from vacation? How much rest you think you need to get past me, huh?"

\---

Sid probably just asked Geno's favourite sushi place for "whatever Geno Malkin gets", because that's what they have to share between them for lunch. They eat on Geno's sofa, sitting as far apart as possible, because that's where he was resting his ankle when Sid walked in. Sid still has his key.

When Geno's eaten enough, he turns off the TV and puts the remote on the arm rest behind him before turning to Sid. This apology better be good.

"I want you to know I never would have let this get so far if I'd known-- I'm sorry I assumed you had to be straight."

"What?"

"You told me you liked sleeping with me better than with a woman. Geno, what was I supposed to take from that?"

Geno knows he's not like Beau. How many years has he shared a changing room with Sid? He can't remember what Sid's dick looks like. He's never thought to look. He thinks about women when he jerks off, but still wants to sleep next to Sid. Geno's not sure what to call that, but he won't let Sid distract him.

"Best apology, Sid. What else I do wrong?"

Sid's lips purse. "I shouldn't have used you to experiment with this year. But what's wrong is using someone like that. There's nothing wrong with you wanting to sleep with men."

"But I don't want that."

"You don't need to be ashamed or embarrassed. You're a great guy. I'm sure lots of guys will want you. I'm just not one of them."

Geno can feel his temper slipping away. Sid's speaking too quickly, smiling his fucking media smile as he accuses Geno of cowardice, of lying when Geno is finally telling Sid the whole truth.

Why is Sid so scared? Geno can't believe that Sid didn't feel what Geno felt, the comfort of lying side by side. If he can just get Sid to listen for a minute.

"Six months, everything's good. You're happy, I think."

"I was ok with where I thought we were going. But after the Florida game, I realised that you thought we were doing something different. I made the mistake. It's not your fault. You made the obvious conclusion that what we were doing was going to end in sex eventually."

"But I don't want--" Geno cuts himself off. "You don't want sex, ok with me, Sid, no sex. Just dog thing, same as before."

"I don't need more time. I'm never going to want what you want."

That doesn't even make sense as an answer. This isn't his rookie year. His English isn't perfect, but it's more than good enough for this.  
"Sid, you don't listen. You don't want to fuck? Great! Me, too. Never want to fuck nobody. My dick is too fucking big!"

Geno knows he's shouting. If his ankle wasn't already throbbing, he would be on his feet.

Sid's voice is condescendingly even. "Well, great for you, but I still don't want it."

Geno is so sick of this shit. If Sid won't listen, Geno will show him. He reaches down for his zip. 

"No, G-- _Дженя, нет_!"

Geno could hate how much those words, that tone, still make him freeze. He could hate the hope they bring, that it means Sid misses Geno being his puppy, too. But he knows Sid, and he knows that Sid will use anything that works. He can be a shit like that. 

Sid's knees are digging into Geno's right thigh. He isn't putting all his weight onto his hands, just keeping a grip on Geno's wrists that tightens if he tries to move from where Sid's pinned them both against Geno's thigh. The fly of Geno's trousers are open, and of his boxer briefs, but his forearms block Sid's view.

Or they would, if Sid wasn't focused on Geno's forehead.

"Let go," Geno tells him.

"Look, you don't need to show me your-- I've seen your dick, Geno. Everyone in the locker room has seen it. We all know you win biggest dick." 

"It's not prize," he snaps. "How many time I have to say I don't want to fuck? Let go."

"I'm sorry." Sid drops his wrists, moves away down the sofa. "I believe that you don't-- I believe you."

Geno adjusts himself, finding the right position so he can zip up. He's soft, but even soft, his cock is too big. It's trouble even outside of the bedroom. Sid isn't the only one who has to get pants tailor-made.

"I never thought about how it, uh, works for you." 

Sid's got his legs out from underneath him, feet on the carpet, shoulders straight. He's staring resolutely forward, and there's a blush that's already fading from his cheeks.

"I don't actually think about sex much. The last time I had a girlfriend, I was with Rimouski. We were young and she was pretty understanding about how much hockey took up my time."

Sid has played in the NHL for ten seasons, one longer than Geno. He can never tell Seryozha about this conversation, because the other man would die laughing.

"You give up sex for hockey."

"I didn't give up sex for hockey," Sid huffs, turning to glare at Geno. 

The colour is back in Sid's face, but he doesn't turn away.

"I like hockey. That'd be like saying you'll give up eating, I don't know, some food you never think about for Lent." 

"You never think about sex? I say "sleep best with Sid", and I mean sleep next to you. But you don't think that."

"It seemed like better odds than thinking we could be on the same page. I never thought..." 

Sid is shaking his head as he looks at Geno. His lips are parted, shaping words that aren't yet the ones he wants to say. His eyes are bright and focused, and Geno feels all the warmth that he felt that morning a month ago, waking up to Sid watching him.

The dawning wonder on Sid's face is familiar. "That morning, when you leaned in close, cupped my jaw in your hand? You weren't thinking about kissing me, were you?"

Geno had thought about touching Sid's hair, carefully cupping the back of his head. Now he thinks about how Sid's hair would grow through the rest of the season, and tries to keep his thoughts from imagining stroking over Sid's scratchy, patchy play-off beard.

"No," he says. "Not kissing."

"I thought about that, too. If it was my turn. I figured I'd be a Labrador."

"You're tiger," Geno says. "Before, that's what I think."

Sid raises his eyebrows. "A tiger from the Maritimes?"

"Black and yellow, Sid. Black and Pittsburgh gold." Like the Pittsburgh Steelers. Like the Penguins' new third jerseys. Like the colours in Sid's eyes.

"Well, I'm not a black and _orange_ tiger," Sid says. "That's for sure."

The space between them is not very far at all now, their bodies turned towards each other, leaning in. Geno lifts up his hands, palms cupped at the height of Sid's face. 

"Want to try again? Your turn?" he asks.

Sid leans all the way into Geno's hands, and says: "Yes."

His hair is as soft as it looks, sliding thick through Geno's fingertips, but best is that he can feel the muscles in Sid's face move when he smiles between Geno's hands. He thinks he could watch Sid like this forever.


End file.
